#whodunnit mafia post for the TBT

[trademarknickersoncharm]

Here's your angst bro

He kept running, past the door, past the steps and the sidewalk.  He lost his footing, or his legs gave out, and his knees and palms met pavement. 

He gasped and felt fresh air enter his lungs for the first time in, God, months, years?

His hands were shaking uncontrollably, but he could barely see them through blurred eyes.  He could feel tremors starting in his core and traveling the course of his whole body, wracking him uncontrollably.  He managed to focus on the ground ahead of him.  Blood, blood everywhere.  Had he cut his hands, or was it just from…him?  From something else?  God, how much of him was even left?

Behind him the night sky shattered into a million pieces as a momentous explosion erupted from deep within the tower building behind him.  He threw his hands up to shield his head.  The shockwave knocked him back into something, and his vision went black and red for a minute, until it slowly melted into the yellow-orange of the flames consuming the building.

Frank Hardy tried to stand, but his legs weren’t working.  He punched his leg, but he couldn’t even feel it.

Come on!  Get up!  GET UP!  You don’t have much time.

His hands were still shaking.  Dark red.  Was it blood, or was the skin just gone?   He couldn’t remember.  He couldn’t think right, but he hand to.  The drugs, the drugs were still in his system. 

Frank tried to breathe.  It came out in gasps and ended in coughs.  He clung to the object the blast had knocked him into, and tried to steady himself.

Lukewarm metal under his hand.  What was it?  He looked.  It took a second to focus. 

A motorcycle.

Frank dragged himself up, adrenaline kicking back in with a renewed sense of purpose.  His fingers began to fiddle with cords, trying to remember how to hotwire.  He kept fumbling—shocked himself once.  Thank God muscle memory was working, and his hands were doing most of it on their own.  He couldn’t think straight.  His hands.  His hands were the hands of a skeleton.  He could only imagine the rest of himself.

The motorcycle purred to life, and he let out a deep sigh of relief.  Noticing the helmet for the first time, Frank put it on.  Good, it would cover his face.  Maybe he wouldn’t be stopped.

He dragged himself on top of the bike.  Sirens were going off in the distance.  He had to move fast.  No one could still be alive in the building behind him, and he knew for a fact that three of them were dead.  No…Not three.  Three in the room, then two outside, and…another…six?  More? 

Why?  He’d been so focused, but now his memories were falling apart.  It was like the explosion had broken the flimsy wall he’d constructed in his mind to hold his sanity in.  Everything was fading, crumbling.  It was so hard to think.  Joe. 

Frank hit the gas and sped out of the parking lot.

He drove until the gas light came on, and he pulled over in a secluded part of town.  Quiet.  Closed stores.  Apartments nearby.  Vaguely familiar.  He found a wall and parked, and leaned against it.

Joe.  What year was it?  He had to find him!  He had to find Joe.  He had to get help.  ATAC.  Why hadn’t anyone come for him? They had to looking, and if they were, they would be nearby.  But where to start?  He needed new clothes, a disguise.  Something to stop the bleeding.  He had to find Joe—he had to still be alive, he was, he knew it—he had to be.  Where—where to start?  How—

He became aware of something.  Pain?  Worse than normal?  Or was it…

He looked down.  The cut in his side was still slowly letting fluid seep out.  Very slowly, but still.  He had to find a way to stop it.

He couldn’t die.  Not until Joe was safe.

He could find the Embassy…No, no—if Zhiming knew he was alive, they’d know he was coming for them.  If they still had Joe, they might—no, he couldn’t let them know he was alive.  But where?

“Oh my God.  Frank?” 

He looked up, ready to run, or kill the speaker.  When he saw him, he did neither.  He collapsed.  Somehow, his body realized it was okay to do so now, and stopped pretending it could keep him upright.

Ned Nickerson dropped his bag of groceries and ran, cutting his knees open, skidding on the pavement in time to catch him in his arms, and keep Frank’s head from hitting the pavement.

“Frank!  Oh God, what did they do to you?  I’ll call an ambulance, please, just hang on!”

Frank was losing sensations, losing consciousness, but he could see Ned’s panicked face looking down through a haze of grey fog.

“Don’t…Please, you can’t tell anyone I’m alive.  I need you to no…t…or…”  Frank faded out.

  Frank Hardy opened his eyes.  He didn’t recognize the sensation at first.  Comfort.  He was on something soft.  It was warm, and dry.  Something…smelled?  Nice?  The ceiling was white plaster.  Where was he?  What kind of sick trick were they using today?  It wasn’t going to work, he wasn’t—no!

Frank shot upright. 

He’d killed them!  He’d escaped, he had—

“Frank?”

He turned his head.  A familiar face greeted him.  She’d been sitting by the bed; her face held a mixture of extreme emotions.  She looked like she was going to cry.

“N…Nancy?”  His voice.  He hadn’t heard it for a long time.  Until he’d spoken to Ned.  Ned?  He looked up and saw him, standing behind Nancy, looking worried and relieved.

“Frank, oh, I’ve been looking for you!”  Nancy threw her arms around his neck and hugged him—trying her hardest to be gentle.  “For two years!  I never stopped—I knew it, I knew you were alive!”

Frank didn’t hug her back.  He couldn’t remember how, or his arms weren’t responding.  Why?

Tears were streaming down her face and he could feel her chest heaving.  It hurt.  But he didn’t mind.  A different…a different kind of pain.  There were different kinds of pain, that was right.  Some of them were okay.  He’d forgotten.

He looked up and saw Ned.  He could tell he was trying to keep it together, but silent tears were streaming down his face.  A strange sensation welled up in his chest.  For a second he thought he was having a heart attack, because he didn’t remember what it felt like to laugh, but then he was laughing and remembered.  It hurt.  In a good way.  His hand went up slowly and he hugged Nancy with the arm that was easier to move.

Nancy finally let go and pulled back.  Her face was stained with tears.  “Frank, what happened?”

Frank shook his head, trying to put his thoughts together.  “I was…Joe and I.  We had a case, and this man—he, he turned on…He—“suddenly, the memories slammed into his head, as merciless and hard as a sledgehammer.  He reeled backwards, bringing his hand to his face.  Joe.  God, no.  No, no, no.  He saw it.  Bai Guo, grabbing him, the gun—using Joe as a shield.  He’d shot Frank.  He shot me…No…no, no, no, no…no.  God please, no.  Through Joe.  He saw the gun flash, the bullet tearing through Joe’s chest, slamming into him after killing his brother.  Killing? 

“No!”

“Frank, Frank what’s wrong?”  He felt Nancy’s hand on his shoulder.

“It can’t.”  He finally broke.  One second of facing reality did what two years of physical and psychological torture couldn’t.  The memory of Joe—he hadn’t meant to accept it.  But he finally had.  And his mind shattered with the wall of denial he’d fought to keep up.

  He didn’t remember much from those few days.  He remembered crying.  He remembered memories, or nightmares, all sorts of contorted things in his head.  Thoughts—images.  Real, not real?  Who knew.  They destroyed him, a piece at a time.  He remembered the memories of Joe the week before it had happened, watching Jumanji on the plane, Joe completely wasting his opportunity to try Chinese cuisine by requesting McDonalds.  And, God, had he really been so mean to him?  Had he had to make fun of him for that?  Couldn’t he have just smiled at him, one more time?  Couldn’t he have said something else to him, with his last words?  Why did they have to be “Don’t mess this up?”  Why did they have to be…? 

  He remembered Nancy, and Ned.  They were both there a lot.  Feeding him, healing him.  Looking after him.  But those memories were foggier than the ones inside his head.  They were worried—he’d known that.  But they’d honored his request not to take him to a hospital.  Nancy had called his father, to let him know.  He had held the phone.  He remembered that part clearly.  Nancy’s voice, saying “Fenton?  You might want to sit down.  One of your sons is alive—“He’d cut her off, his dad had, asking about something.  Nancy had tried to say something a few times, but had given up and handed the phone to Frank.

Frank remembered it so clearly, taking the phone. His dad’s voice.

“Frank?  Joe?”

Which one.  “Frank.”  He’d answered.  Speaking the word had hurt.  If it could have just been the other name.

“Frank?  Oh, Frank, thank God it’s you.”

“Thank God it’s you.”

He’d hung up.  Nancy had called his dad back, explained Frank wasn’t doing so well, convinced him not to tell anyone his son was alive.  She’d seemed to have been successful, but Frank hadn’t cared. 

Thank God it’s you.